The Scottish Governess: Regency Romance

by Arietta Richmond

  They emerged an hour later, arm in arm, to see the Dowager approaching with the news that she had engaged the services of a new maid for Harriet. Then, taking a firm hold of Constance, she swept her upstairs with talk of ballgowns and the planning of the wardrobe which she would need, appropriate to her new station in life.

  ~~~~~

  Three hours later, Clara, Harriet and Amelia were in the dining room with their father, waiting for the Dowager and Constance to join them for lunch. Perry had told them that he had a new wife and they a new mother. They sat silently, trying to absorb the news.

  Clara's first thought was of how the fact that their father had married a servant would devastate her reputation, a fragile reputation, barely established yet, at her coming out.

  She'd decided that she would wait to speak to her father in private, rather than risk an argument now.

  Harriet's reaction was similar. Her concern was for how her father's vastly unequal marriage would affect her coming out next year. Would she have one at all?

  Or would they be frozen out of society altogether? This time next year, would they be living in exile in Edinburgh, or on the land her father owned in New England, across the Atlantic? She liked Constance very much, but she'd had no idea that her father was harbouring romantic notions towards her.

  Amelia was the only one who was mostly unconcerned. The discomfiture of her two elder sisters amused her. Also, she had begun to feel a real affection for Constance, an affection rendered more powerful thanks to her passionate temperament.

  The thought that Constance would be her Mama, someone she could go to at any moment of the day, had reignited a sense of reassurance the like of which she had not felt for five years. Yes, perhaps some of her friends would tease her, but she would have no trouble putting them in their place! In fact, she would quite enjoy it.

  “When are they coming Papa? I'm starved!”

  “I'm glad to hear it Amelia. I'm sure that they'll be down in a few moments. And how are your appetites, Clara, Harriet?”

  “I'm not particularly hungry Papa.”

  “I'm not hungry at all.”

  The elder girls responded glumly, in unison, but Amelia looked at them, a little incredulous, before she spoke.

  “Oh do be more cheerful, you two. Remember this is Papa's wedding day! Will there be champagne Papa, and can I have a little – have one glass at least?”

  “You may have a full glass Amelia.”

  “Oh, thank you Papa. Did you hear that Clara, Harriet?”

  At that moment the footmen opened the double doors of the dining room and in came Constance with the Dowager. The girls and their father stood.

  Not just automatically, as they usually did. They were drawn magnetically to their feet by the sight of the Lady by the Dowager's side.

  Constance was wearing a pure white muslin gown of classic Grecian cut, and within its wide neckline, glinting in the combined warmth of the sun and the soft clear skin on which they rested, as snugly as bird's eggs, was a necklace of rubies – a Stapleton family heirloom - each clasped in gold. A bracelet of similar design, composed of smaller rubies, glowed on her right wrist, matched by the gold wedding band given to her by Perry.

  Pre-empting the footman, the Earl came around the table to help seat the Dowager and then Constance at the end of the table, opposite to him.

  The three girls, amazed, struggled to contain their awe at her transformation

  They sat and stared at their father's new wife, their new mother, the former housemaid, Constance Leslie, their mouths repeatedly falling open as they watched her unfold her napkin, and give a nod to the footman waiting with the wine.

  Even the Dowager’s natural stateliness and authority were dimmed in the presence of this beautiful woman who possessed a natural authority - Constance Stapleton, Countess of Blackwood.

  Chapter Twenty

  The doors to the ballroom at Almack’s Assembly Rooms were finally opened by two footmen in green velvet uniforms with silver piping. Around the huge room, hired for the evening’s event, with its polished parquet floor and Carrara marbled walls, their silver wigs gleaming like helmets beneath the blazing chandeliers and candelabra, the rest of the army of footmen stood at attention, immobile and ornate as caryatids. At a signal from Mr Collins, transported down from Blackwood Chase for the occasion, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a waltz.

  The ballroom began to fill with excited young ladies in their most dazzling gowns, on the arms of excited young men. On their heels came the older generations of the ton, the Dowager Countess of Blackwood and her friends, chief among them the Dowager Duchess of Anderton, Lady Staines and Lady Marchmain, all attired in gowns which made them appear to sail across the floor, as formidably as three of Lord Nelson's battleships. Their husbands, or at least those still surviving, came in together, and in a far more relaxed manner than their spouses.

  The elder ladies of the ton were still reserving judgement about the propriety of the Earl of Blackwood's marriage, whereas their husbands had, to a man, already been conquered by the wit and charm of his wife, the Countess.

  It had been the busiest ten days of the Dowager Countess of Blackwood's life. Each day she had taken Constance to tea with various ladies of the ton, or had invited the ladies to Blackwood House. To a woman, they had been impressed, if not dazzled, by Constance's ease of manner, her grace, and her conversation - for she seemed to know far more about them than they did about her (as indeed she did, thanks to tutorials from the Dowager). Once what class credentials Constance could boast had been established, most of them had begun to look favourably upon her – she might be tarnished by the touch of a merchant class background, but that was infinitely better than something truly lower class.

  The Dowager knew her friends and the ladies of London Society - it would only take one of them to look or talk coldly to Constance at the Ball, and all of her work would be undone. She had no intention of allowing that to happen. Thus far, all had gone well, everyone had greeted Constance warmly on entering the ballroom and had toasted her with what gaiety they allowed themselves. But news had reached the Dowager that Christine, the Dowager Duchess de Montfort, had decided to leave her sick bed to 'have a look' at the new Countess of Blackwood. The Dowager Duchess de Montfort was universally feared - many of those in the room having still smarting memories of her withering tongue. But the dragon had yet to appear, and until she did, the Dowager Countess decided, she would enjoy the dancing which was about to begin, with her son and daughter-in-law beginning the proceedings.

  A hush fell on the company as they entered.

  Any of those still entertaining doubts as to the fitness of this most unequal match must have changed their minds the moment that the Earl and Countess stepped into the Ballroom, arm in arm. No other couple present seemed as made for each other, as the Earl and Countess of Blackwood did. Physically, they complemented each other to perfection, the Countess' red hair, darkened to a smouldering tone with henna, matched the near coal-black lustre of the Earl's; the pale unblemished skin they shared seemed to have been cut from the same cloth, while their equally dark green eyes, glinting like the night with stars, seemed like jewels. Their attire, so carefully chosen, confirmed this physical complementarity. The Countess in a pale blue ballgown with an overlay of beautiful gem encrusted gold net, and the Earl in perfectly tailored evening wear, dark, with a blue-satin embroidered waistcoat.

  But, as they began to dance together, in the moments before the rest of the company joined the dance, what became obvious, what imprinted itself on the senses of the Lords and Ladies watching with each step that they made, was the joy they felt in each other's presence, something quiet, and deep and solid. It became obvious that they were both rooted in the same foundation of mutual adoration and love.

  As they moved around the floor everyone felt it, felt, as they swirled around, waltzing with such ease of precision, waves of the happiness, the rightness which united them. Clara, with her
partner, was the first to take to the floor, followed quickly by Harriet and Amelia, overjoyed, and brimming with gratitude to the Countess, for allowing them to attend. Soon, the floor was crowded, and remained so for dance after dance.

  As the Dowager moved among those not dancing, she eavesdropped on pools of conversation.

  “I have to admit they make the most beautiful couple I've ever witnessed...”

  “She's far more lovely than the former Countess, don't you think...?

  “And what a wit! Did you hear what she said to Lord Amesbury? 'It's not I who has to fit in with society my Lord, but society with me.' Can you credit it? The lady has nerve.'”

  “Indeed, she has. And how did Lord Amesbury take it?”

  “He laughed out loud, and you know Lord Amesbury, he's not a man of easy jollity.”

  The Dowager had warned Constance about being so forward, and she didn't approve, but she had to smile on hearing this. Winning Lord Amesbury over was a very long and valuable feather in her cap.

  But, hearing a buzz of activity behind her, she turned to see the ballroom doors open for the far harder to please Dowager Duchess de Montfort to enter, as if she were an Empress come to observe the social rituals of some race of savages. The dancing perceptibly slowed, and excited whispers spread like wildfire around the room. The Dowager Duchess de Montfort was guided to a seat with a commanding view of the dancing, and sat, heavily, with a look of weary scepticism on her sagging features. The Dowager Countess of Blackwood, taking a deep breath, went over to greet her.

  “I can't stay long Olivia. I'm not a well woman. But I am curious to see Peregrine's new wife. Where is she?”

  “There, can you see?”

  “Ah yes, quite a pretty gown. Would you bring her to me when they stop throwing themselves around the floor like a troop of dervishes?”

  “I'll have a word with both of them when the waltz finishes, yes, Christine”.

  “See that you do. And I find the air in here too stuffy. Could you open that window for me?”

  The Dowager Countess, hiding her annoyance – the Dowager Duchess de Montfort loved nothing better than to get people to do things for her – whispered this instruction to a footman. A few minutes later the waltz ended, and the Dowager Countess of Blackwood sped quickly to Peregrine and Constance and relayed the 'sick' Dowager Duchess de Montfort's truculent eagerness for an audience.

  “Sit here, next to me Countess, Peregrine, would you be kind enough to fetch me a glass of chilled water?”

  Constance, unlike almost everyone else in the room, was more amused than intimidated by the Dowager Duchess de Montfort's manner, and pulled up the indicated chair. Her husband, once he had returned with the requested water, ironically presented on a silver salver, withdrew at the Dowager Duchess' request, and the two were left alone in a gradually widening space, as if, Constance thought to herself, she was a lamb being left to the attentions of a lioness...

  No one could hear what this lioness and a rather pert lamb were talking of. But though the Countess was seen to smile now and again, the Dowager Duchess' features remained set.

  Though it was sometimes difficult to tell what her habitually cold features were doing, behind the fan that the aged lady began fluttering before her as they talked.

  The dancing recommenced, but the pair continued their mysterious conversation. Eventually the Dowager Duchess rose from her seat and, giving a stiff nod to Constance, was escorted out of the room, which caused a hastily repressed collective sigh of relief. The Dowager Countess of Blackwood, with Peregrine, Clara, Harriet, and Amelia, rushed as decorously as they could over to Constance.

  “What on earth were you and the Dowager Duchess talking about?”

  Peregrine voiced the question first.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “Come Constance, details, if you please?”

  “We talked about Scotland quite a lot.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Yes, she knows a lot about Scotland. She's quite fascinating. I can't wait to hear more.”

  “Hear more?”

  “Yes, I'm invited to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What! No one goes for dinner at the Dowager Duchess de Montfort's anymore!”

  “Perhaps not, but she has a special interest in me and my family in Edinburgh.”

  “How so?”

  “We may be related. Oh, a long way back, two hundred years or more. One of her Scots ancestors. On her mother's side, bore the name Ballantine, my Edinburgh birth family's name.”

  “Good God! Constance, if it's true, then perhaps you have noble blood, nobler than many of those in this room.”

  “It's far from certain Lady Blackwood. We'll see.”

  ~~~~~

  “So, you may be related to the de Montforts! I'm dancing with the descendent of Norman princes!”

  “I'd rather you danced with plain Constance Stapleton.”

  “There is nothing plain about you my darling... but, joking apart, your – possible - relationship to the Dowager Duchess de Montfort can do you nothing but good with society, once the word spreads.”

  “I expect so. But I'd much rather be accepted on my own merits.”

  “My mother assures me that you are well on the way to it, my darling. But for now, just enjoy yourself, and get all of that out of your mind. What matters is how I feel about you. And, as I shall never tire of saying: I adore you.”

  The evening ended with a waltz, and, as they danced, though many guests had already departed, there were enough remaining to watch them, some smouldering with envy. Particularly, at different points around the great ballroom, Lady Densmore, Lady Childs, and, telling herself, unconvincingly, that the Earl was a little too old for her anyway, young Lady Antonia Barry.

  As the music ended, Perry took her hand, and led her out onto the terrace. There, under the moonlight, he kissed her – a lingering, slow kiss, which contained all of the promise of the future.

  Epilogue

  Summer, autumn, winter, and another spring passed. Once again, the Blackwood estate was blooming. The trees were green, the brooks sparkled in the sun, lambs tottered, mewling, against their mothers on the gently sloping hills.

  Another mewling sound, though more pronounced and insistent, escaped from the windows of the drawing room at Blackwood Chase. It was surrounded by sharp female voices.

  “It's me he wants Harriet, I'm the only one who can calm him!”

  “Nonsense Amelia, look, he's stopped already!”

  The little white cloth wrapped baby lying against Harriet's shoulder gave a loud yell.

  “There, I told you, he wants me!”

  “Au contraire Amelia. Here – Georgie Poo, Auntie Clara is here!”

  Clara, sweeping into the room, began lifting the baby from Harriet's shoulder.

  “Clara! No! When will you learn? You don't hold him like that!”

  “You don't know how to hold him either Harriet. He likes it this way.”

  “No, Amelia! Look he's crying again.”

  The door opened again and in came George's nurse.

  “If I may, your Ladyships, George is hungry, he wants his mother.”

  “Oh! Can we watch?”

  “You will have to ask her Ladyship. Ah, here she is.”

  “Ask me what? Oh, I see, George is hungry.”

  Constance, almost completely recovered from the birth of her first child, a son and heir for the Earl, smilingly took hold of him and sat down in the corner by the window. The girls followed.

  “Mama, may we stay with you? I know that society would think it scandalous, but…”

  “Of course you may. If, you will return the compliment when your own children are born.”

  “Oh we will, won’t we?” All three nodded happily.

  “I shan't allow a wet-nurse anywhere near my own children. Why it's unnatural, isn't it, Mama?”

  “Well, not exactly unnatural, Amelia dear, the baby still gets milk, but the bond between moth
er and child is far stronger, I believe, if the mother feeds it often herself.”

  “It must be true, Mama, it stands to reason!... Oh, I simply can't wait to have one of my own!”

  “Don't be too eager Amelia, there's much pain and difficulty involved, isn't that so, Mama?”

  “Nothing that can't be borne, Harriet dear, and it helps considerably if you love the father and want the child.”

  Constance brought George around to her breast and began suckling the eager bundle. The girls fell silent. They never tired of watching. It was a marvel for them, a kind of living tableau, with their mother, the Countess, as the Madonna, and George, well... he was a divine baby, with big blue-green eyes and, already, a head of dark curls like their father's, and would be spoiled abominably by his three doting elder sisters. All was quiet as the girls sat, holding each other's hands, rapt as they watched the beautiful scene of mother and child. A deep contentment seemed to spread through the room to the reassuring ticking of the great grandfather clock – a contentment which seemed to embrace the whole house and the quiet land around, out to the peaceful village...

  Woodsbridge Village. Several times a day Constance found herself smiling, her whole being aglow with the realisation that her former mother-in-law, Mrs Leslie, was so well-provided for now. For the Earl had successfully pushed through a bill in parliament for pensions to be paid to the mothers and wives of those fallen at Waterloo, even agitating for a higher rate to be paid to mothers over sixty-five years of age. With Margaret's daily needs being taken care of from Constance's own purse, the good, long-suffering lady was finally free of material worries and cares.

  The girls had continued the mending of their ways, and had long since had all of their privileges restored. They bickered among themselves as young women will, but without malice or any tenacious resentments. Any disputes which threatened to become serious were brought to their mother for arbitration, at which point she put on her best ‘severe governess’ manner, and adjudicated the dispute. Her practical good sense, tinted, as always, with that dry Scots irony, was usually sufficient to solve their disputes.